


Far From Home

by hidley



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-01-19 05:38:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1457725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hidley/pseuds/hidley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sarge and Grif have left to track down the Blues, leaving Simmons to hold up the fort with only Doc and Donut for company. But as the weeks go by, and unused to the sudden silence, Simmons is left to dwell on things that perhaps he should leave alone. Both about himself and his team.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

'Night, Simmons!'

'Yeah, night Doc.'

Simmons closed his bunk door behind him, battling with the temptation just to fall back against it and fall asleep right then and there. He closed his eyes, letting his head dip forward as he dragged his feet towards his bunk and started slowly taking off his armour piece by piece, leaving his helmet for last.

Each part felt like a small part of his flesh being taken off, he'd been wearing the suit for so long. No longer having to carry so much weight made him both relieved and unsettled. Such lightness left him with nothing to tie him to the ground, making him feel like he was going to start floating off the floor.

He quickly got over the sensation, however and collapsed on his bunk, helmet still on, and pulled the covers roughly over his legs. He lay on his back for a while, his eyes closed. He wasn't trying to sleep, he just needed some time to process the day. Nothing much had happened. Considering all that used to go on in Blood Gulch, he should have been happy to have such boring days, with nothing ever happening and no one to bitch at him. Doc wasn't even around much. He spent most of his time in the little garden he and Donut had made up the last time they were both here. Simmons was just left to mosey around in Red Base, cleaning equipment and catching up on journal logs.

More than once Doc had come in, whining to let Simmons let him use the logs too, but there was stuff on their that was Red secret shit, and despite the fact that Sarge wasn't here, and Simmons didn't particularly care about keeping them private, the point was, Doc was still technically a blue before he was a red, and so he still wasn't allowed anywhere near their information.

And plus, after weeks of being alone in the canyon, with only his thoughts and occasionally the medic to keep him company, Simmons had perhaps not used the log for strictly professional entries one hundred per cent of the time, and he would rather Doc not know about what he vented about in the middle of the night.

His room didn't have any windows, and so when he flicked the switch on the wall by his head, the whole room fell into pitch darkness. He reached around the back of his helmet fiddling with the metal until he found the headlights and flicked them on, watching as they softly illuminated the ceiling above him.

Sarge and Grif had been gone for weeks. They'd left with Caboose to go and find the rest of the Blues, leaving him and Doc here to hold down the fort, after much deliberation.

Apparently. Simmons had actually not been present for said deliberations and so he couldn't comment. Either way, his team abandoned him, Sarge for whatever reason choosing Grif to come along with him. The maroon solider assumed it was because where they were going was dangerous and Sarge wanted someone to put in the firing line, and so he tried not to be too offended. Except that he was. Very.

For however long they'd been in this place, Simmons had been Sarge's go-to guy, the one who he always asked to do the important tasks that Grif was too stupid and too lazy to do. Sarge entrusted him with everything. Security. Food. Ammo, whenever Grif forgot (which was always). There was no one his superior valued more in this place than him. He knew that.

He knew that.

He knew-.

Dammit.

The light above him began to flicker. Frowning, he flicked the bulb, pushing it around with his finger, trying to realign the electrical connection. He'd just changed this thing. How could it be dead already? The light flickered a couple more times, before going off completely, leaving Simmons blind and irritated as he huffed and let his arm fall back down to his side.

He missed Lopez.

* * *

 'Grif! What in damns hell do you think you're doing?'

'What does it look like I'm doing? I'm radioing Simmons,' Grif said, harshly, his gloved hands fiddling with the beat up Com radio in front of him. 'You're never going to admit we're in over our heads and so I'm taking the initiative and getting us help. Isn't that what you always wanted me to do?'

The radio crackled dully, static bursting in Grif's ears as it came through the speakers in his helmet. He winced, trying to catch a better signal, but the armour was too damaged, and the connections were all spliced up. The room vibrated violently as another explosion went off. Grif heard Tucker shouting outside.

He ignored it but he felt Sarge glance over at him, and so waved a hand in his direction. 'Go help. I'll be there in a minute.'

Sarge didn't reply to him, only stood there for a moment more before grunting and running out to join Tucker. Gritting his teeth, Grif continued to work the radio, listening out for a hint of clear signal.

'Dammit. C'mon, Simmons. C'mon..'

* * *

He lay in the dark for a long time, listening to the crackle and whirr of his own mechanical brain. His cyborg body parts had been made for speed, not quality. Sometimes the sound of his own thoughts kept him up for hours, unable to quieten his own mind down enough to fall asleep. More often than not, he just spent the nights writing, making logs and cleaning equipment quietly outside of the base. His fatigue tended to ebb away fairly quickly once he got himself out of bed and out into the ever present day.

Sometimes Grif would come up and talk to him tiredly for a bit, but it always ended in him either going back to bed or falling asleep mid sentence. Either way, it didn't happen very often, and Simmons was glad for the company, however brief it was.

He didn't have Grif to stay up with him now.

Not that he really cared. He just preferred it when there was noises other than the ones he made filling up the silence of the room. Sometimes he wished he could just shut it off, shut down his cyborg body parts and just lie dead for a couple of hours. Sarge could always just bring him back again. And even if he couldn't, well.

He supposed there were worse things that could happen. It's not like anyone needed him around here anymore anyway.

* * *

 'Simmons? Are you there? Simmons? God damn it!' Grif cursed, slamming a hand against his helmet, hard. 'Stupid fucking radio!'

'Grif! We need help out here!' Sarge's called out roughly from outside. His voice sounded slightly off, a bit more stress in it than his usual drone, and Grif picked up on it immediately. Cursing again, louder, he quickly switched tactics and tapped into his recording systems instead. At least those things still fucking worked.

'Simmons, this is Grif. We need help, like, now. Long distance radio is down, short distance radio is barely working and we've got no fucking car. Our armour has taken damage but that tracking device in mine should still work. Find us, bring backup. Preferably good backup. And fucking hurry.'

Another explosion. Another yell from Sarge. He needed to go.

'We need you, buddy.'

Grif sent the recording over the broken radio on all channels, before shoving the external radio equipment away and grabbing his rifle,  running out to the fight. It was a long shot, but he sure hope that message got through. 

 


	2. Dude, your radios off. I can't hear you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are getting frustrating out in the desert, and Simmons is completely oblivious to Grif's message.

The whirring of his mechanical mind was getting louder. Crackling and spurting static like a mobile phone too close to a radio. Simmons tried his best to ignore it, determined to get some sleep. The room was dark, but keeping his helmet on gave him a sense of comfort. The weight grounded him and he found it easier to drift off with his head pressed firmly into the pillow, as if such strange security kept him safe. But the noise was testing his endurance, for the interference that he normally could stand was slowly driving him up the wall. If he didn't know better, he would think there was an external signal coming through-

'Argh!' Simmons bit out in pain as a sudden surge of static burst through the speakers in his helmet, inducing an answering shriek from his electrical interior as the two transmissions clashed. Ripping the armour from his head, he threw it to the ground, hands clasping over his ears.

They rang with angry bursts of disrupted signal, as the system attempted to reboot and refresh after the interruption. The buzz of incoming binary had disappeared now it was no longer held next to the radio, but Simmons could still hear the worn wiring putter and complain. Eventually, the soft whirring returned and the system settled again, allowing Simmons to remove his hands and turn to glare at the neglected helmet steadily rocking back and forth at his feet.

 _Right_ , he thought angrily as he leant down and scooped it up in one hand, heading to the door. _Since clearly I'm not getting any sleep tonight._

He left the bunk in search for Sarge's toolbox.

* * *

 

It was worse than Grif had thought. The second he emerged from the sand dune their Warthog had crashed into, his head was nearly blasted straight off.

'Holy fuck!'

'Grif! Get your fucking ass out of the firing line!' Tucker's voice was somewhere off to the right, and so that's where Grif ran, keeping himself low and muttering panicked curses under his laboured breath. Glancing up, he could see where Sarge and the Blue had taken cover behind a boulder the size of their base, and sped up, throwing himself down at their feet.

'Get up, Scumbag, we're taking fire!'

'Yeah, I can see that, Sarge.' Grif hauled himself to his feet and knelt by Tucker, who was furiously unloading his rifle onto another Warthog across the way, and managing to miss every single shot. After a while, the gun clicked and he swore loudly into the radio before grabbing another round and replacing the empty cartridge, lining up his sight again. Or as much 'sight' as he seemed capable of. Caboose was set up just to the right of him, calmly shooting down a row of soldiers, his every shot hitting its mark.

Grif was going to mention to Tucker that maybe he ought to just stick with his sword, but a bullet pinging of the rock close to his arm stole the words from him and instead morphed them into a shrill yelp as he jumped back. He hadn't seen how many they were being attacked by, but if the near constant flurry of hits their cover was being subjected to was anything to go by, his bet was on a far few. Definitely more than them. Fantastic.

'Er, Sarge?!' he shouted over the noise. 'What's the plan?'

Tucker answered for him. 'There's somewhere safe we can get to!' the Blue ceased his oblivious wasting of bullets, leaving Caboose to continuing firing and turned to the two Reds. 'It's over by the cliff! We need to get these assholes distracted and then we can make a run for it!'

'What the hell do we use as a distraction?' Grif yelled back.

He really shouldn't have asked. Ten seconds later he was running out from behind their shelter, arms full of the few grenades they had between them, throwing them one after the other at the space in front of the cars, screaming all the while. The Blues and Sarge ran for it behind him, and he closely followed once he ran dry of distraction, not for the first time aggressively wishing Simmons was there. At least then he wouldn't have to do this baiting bullshit alone.

* * *

 

Simmons tried to ignore the eerie silence as he made his way through empty corridors to the front of the base. He was fairly certain Sarge kept his tools in his bunker, but the thought of stepping inside there without explicit permission made his subordinate mind cringe. Their bunks weren't especially private, but that of his superior was unspokenly off limits, he assumed. He briefly considered asking Donut if he knew where they were, but it had gotten late and he was reluctant to wake the other man up for something so unimportant.

The helmet hanging from his fingers was still crackling faintly, though now far enough away that it didn't mess with the electronics in Simmons' skin. The sharp noise made him flinch and wince in irritation every time it peaked, but he resisted the temptation just to throw it against a wall and be done with it.

Along the corridor, the pale walls were softly lit by the sunlight streaming in from outside, overlaying the artificial bulbs lined up in threes in the corners of the ceiling.

This base was a lot larger than the one they had had in Blood Gulch, and Simmons was often put off by the length of time it took to get anywhere within it. Before it had been just a big space with a few bunks and a medical room. No kitchen, no locker room. Just a load of metal walls and flooring, sloping up and down without separation by doors or windows. It was hard as hell to do anything without everyone else knowing, and completely impossible to be alone for very long. They had been fortunate the canyon was so large, and the cliffs so littered with caves. If they had been forced to spend every single waking hour in each other's company, the Reds would have killed each other in the first week.

Out in the open air, Simmons frowned at the bright light and held a hand up to shield his naked eyes from the sun. Without his armour, it seemed a lot more intense, and without any coolants, his body quickly warmed past what was comfortable. The view from their base entrance was undoubtedly beautiful. The ocean stretched out far beyond what even Simmons could see, and glittered bright blue in the constant sunshine.

In fact, there was little about this place that wasn't strangely spectacular. The bases each had towers that rose up high in the air, with trajectory structures curving down and around the bottom. Blood Gulch had literally just been a couple of boxes in the middle of a box canyon. This was a proper base.

After a while of digging around outside, Simmons managed to find a couple of bent screw drivers, pliers and some spare wiring. Still determined not to go searching in Sarge's bunk, he settled for the thin supplies and went back inside, walking just far enough in for the fans to cool him down, but not so far that he couldn't see what he was doing.

Slumping down onto the ground, his back up against the wall, he secured the helmet firmly between his legs, and delved in. The radio continued to spit at him, sharp rings of electrical signal collaborating with a base line of flat static. Unconcerned with shocking himself, Simmons pulled the back out and stared into the system, his heart sinking. The interior was clogged with dust and tiny grains of sand, blocking port holes and mostly likely heating up the system far beyond normal. Now looking directly at the problem, Simmons started fiddling with the circuit board, checking connections and cleaning away as much crap as he could with the fingers on his flesh hand.

Small waves of electricity rose up from a particularly damaged outlet, and so he reached up and flicked the switch on the top of his shoulder, deactivating his bionic arm and the fibres that ran through to the other limb. Immediately his arm slumped, suddenly much heavier without the technological support, but he heaved it up again, slowly brushing aside the frayed wiring.

As he went through each connection, testing it and cutting it short if necessary, he leaned heavily on the wall behind him, very aware of the many hours in which he had yet to sleep off. 'Nights' in Blood Gulch used to be rather notable affairs, as he and the rest of his team threw off their armour and collapsed down into their respective bunks. The Privates all shared a room then, him, Grif and Donut, with crooked bunk beds that Simmons refused to sleep on, and that Donut detested, and since Grif was too heavy to ever go on the top, the pink soldier’s discomfort with heights drove him to always sleeping on the floor, him and Simmons lying on hard, layered bedding whilst Grif rolled his eyes at them from the bottom bunk.

Simmons missed sleeping on the floor, now he no longer had to. There was something comforting about lying close to the ground, made it feel as if he was aware of everything around him. If he pressed his ear to the floor, and that was often how he drifted off, he used to be able to hear the movements of everyone else in the base, whether it be Grif's heavy step making its way to the food storage unit, or Lopez's clunky, metal ones patrolling the halls. Sarge always had him guard them as they slept, convinced that they still weren't safe from the Blue's, even when the 'sun went down'.

There was also always noise at bedtime, explosions going off outside on the other side of the canyon, that Simmons now knew were most probably caused by Sheila and Caboose's attempts to co-operate her turrets.

And if there weren't explosions there were arguments between Grif and Donut over who ate the last of the good rations or Sarge yelling at them to shut up or sounds from their semi-intact make-shift television Simmons had made for Grif on his birthday one year. It had been half a month late but the idiot was still ecstatic.

Whatever it was, the place was never silent like it was now, and it was unnerving. He barely noticed when the helmet in his lap bit out a crackle and a voice came through underneath the noise.

_'Sim-mons? A-a-re y-you there?'_

The soldier's head snapped down, staring at his reflection in the helmet visor. Did he just hear..?

_'Simmons? G-g-g-god da-amn it! Stupid fuck-k-king r-radio!'_

Grif?

Simmons quickly pulled the helmet onto his head and clicked on the radio, his deactivated mechanics coming online again. 'Grif? Grif, is that you?'

The radio whined and cracked in his ears, the voice coming through in small surges of broken static, words jumping and repeating like a scratched up record.

'Grif?'

 _'Shi-it.'_ The crackle continued but the voice stopped. Noises from wherever the hell Grif was thundered in the background, sounding like the close clacking of a hundred machine guns firing at once. Simmons knew they were going into hostile areas but by the sounds of it, Grif and Sarge had clearly walked into some kind of warzone.

Frustrated and too impatient to wait for Grif to tell him what the fuck was happening, Simmons pulled the helmet off again, turned it around in his hands and blew hard into the exposed network at the back.

Immediately, an influx of dust flew up into his face and he spluttered, turning his face away and coughing the stuff out of his throat. The radio whirred up again, this time clear and healthier sounding. Simmons turned back, his eyebrows raised.

_Really? That easy all along, huh?_

The transmission was still coming through on the Com, broken and hard to hear but at least now Simmons knew that wasn't a result of anything wrong on his end. Trying again, he put the helmet on and spoke out. 'Grif? Grif can you hear me?'

Still nothing. The noise of fighting still ran through the speakers, but they had no voice accompanying them. It would be more concerning if this kind of thing wasn't so routine, but given his experience with Red team, Simmons didn't feel particularly panicked as he waited patiently for Grif to start talking again.

Eventually, the frequency changed up an octave, and a voice was back in Simmons' ear, loud and out of breath, badly corrupted with interference. _'S-Simmons, this is Grif. We need help, like, n-n-now. Long distance radio is d-down, short distance radio is b-barely working and we've got-got-got-got no f-fucking car. Our armour has taken damage but that tracking device in mine should still work-k-k. F-find us, bring backup. Preferably go-good backup. And fucking hurry.'_

Another explosion went off in the distance. 

_'W-we need you, buddy.'_

The message ended with a click.

_Shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, I want honesty. If you want to see this continued, say so. I've been in a writing slump for a while so I'm fighting with the temptation just to ditch all ongoing projects and start fresh with new material. If people care enough about this one in particular, by all means I will continue it and work hard to make it as good as I reckon it can be. But ya gotta let me know. If you're not bothered, then don't worry about it.


	3. Do You Think This Thing's Bigger Than a Shotgun?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif's getting antsy, Tucker is gradually being re-reminded why he spent four years trying to kill the Reds and Simmons needs eye removal surgery.

“Guys, hold them off!” Tucker yelled. “I'll get the door!”

Grif reached the side of what looked like a huge temple, and backed against it, firing at everything he could see. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sarge move inside the building, Caboose at his heels, and a massive solid rock moving over the entrance.

Making sure he shot at least one more guy in the head (or the shoulder, whatever), he followed suit, and ducked inside just as the heavy door slid closed behind him.

“There.” Tucker emerged, shaking the cramp out of his hands and clicking the restraints on his helmet off. “We're good now.”

Removing his helmet also, Grif walked over to stand next to Caboose, and stared out into the depths of the temple, eyes scanning over the magnitude of rock and carved structures that stretched out before him. Metal panels and wiring were fused into the walls, most hanging off by a thread but also some that seemed reasonably intact. The floor was nothing but sand, and small dunes littered the surface, giving way to small craters that looked like they led into some kind of cave network.

The ceiling rose high above their heads and the tendons in Grif’s neck cracked to look up so far. It certainly wasn't what he had expected when Tucker said “somewhere safe", but he was more than willing to get with it.

Sarge came up behind him, the older man still clutching his rifle. “Where the hell are we?”

“Somewhere those motherfuckers can't get to us,” Tucker said, smirking. “I've been holed up in here for weeks, and believe me, nothing can get in.”

"We did," Grif pointed out, distractedly.

"Yeah, that's because I have _this,_ dumbass.” Tucker unclipped his energy sword from his armour, activating it with a flick of his wrist. The blade slashed out, crackling with electricity for a moment before settling. "I think it's some kind of alien relic. It can open and close the temple door. In fact, I think it may be the only thing that can. Pretty cool, huh?”

Grif didn't reply, still staring up at the sloping ceiling above his head.

"Ah, fuck you. How ya'll find me anyway?” Tucker said, clearly trying for nonchalance but failing to mask the confusion in his voice.

"We got that radio call you sent,” Sarge answered him, turning away from Grif and glaring at the Blue from behind his visor.

Tucker blinked. "The distress signal? And they sent you assholes? That was to help me! I wanted less distress, not more distress!"

"Er," Grif dragged his eyes away from the engravings on the far corners of the wall opposite and turned his head. "Actually we kind of ignored that call at first."

"That makes sense," Tucker scoffed.

"But then Donut showed up and told us you were in trouble."

"Oh ho ho, so I get it," Tucker shrunk his sword again and slotted it back onto his armour. "Me making an emergency radio call: not a big deal. Donut telling you some dumbass story? Red Alert."

Shrugging, Grif turned away again. "Pretty much."

"So where's the rest of you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I fucking hope you didn't just turn up on your own," Tucker said.

Sensing his CO shift behind him, Grif kept his head turned away, more interested in exploring than in anything the Blue had to say. The place was so big he couldn't see an end to any of the corridors that led away from what he assumed was a main foyer of sorts. The combination of dust, rock and technology ran along every wall, screens and panels covered with lettering that he hadn't a hope of understanding. The itch to examine every surface was so strong it took him off guard. When the hell did he get so fucking dorky? He'd been hanging around with Simmons too long.

He was just starting to think about how much the nerdy idiot would love all of this shit when Tucker spoke up again.

"You fuckers turned up on your own didn't you?"

Caboose piped up at that. "Ah, now. By "on our own" do you mean without people... other? Than us?"

"Yes, I do."

"Then, yes."

"Why the fuck would you do that?!"

"We didn't have much of a choice, dirtbag," Sarge said, irritably. "Who were you thinking we were gunna bring?"

"Anybody! Literally anybody! You seriously mean to tell me that you thought I was so overwhelmed by a situation that just three more fucking people could resolve? You could have brought soldiers, backup, another fucking Freelancer, I don't care! Just more than just your own backsides! Where's the rest of your team anyway? Where’s Simmons?"

"Back at base," Grif bit out.

"Why couldn't you have brought him?"

"He said he wanted to hold down the fort. Said he'd be more use there than here."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Tucker threw his hands up in the air. "The one time you and that maroon dickhead switch personalities has to be the day I really don't fucking need it!"

"Oh fuck you." The growl in Grif's voice earned a side glance from Sarge and a frown from Tucker, but the orange soldier ignored both. "At least we came."

Tucker's eyes flashed. "Yeah, you're right. I'm so grateful you came to my fucking rescue. It may have made my life ten million times worse, but it’s the thought that counts."

Grif opened his mouth to sneer something back, but was cut off by Sarge stepping forward, putting a barrier between him and Tucker so they broke eye contact. The movement defused the Blue's anger, but not the Red's, as Grif let out a breath of annoyance before stomping off further into the temple.

Tucker glanced around Sarge, watching him go. "What the fuck is his problem?"

"None of yer concern, Blue. Now what in Sam's hell is going on around here?"

"It's kind of hard to explain." Tucker straightened up again, ignoring the younger Red's retreating back in favour of addressing the older man. "Those dicks outside are after some artefact they think is here. Some massive weapon built a long time ago."

"An old weapon..," Caboose said, thoughtfully. "Like a spear?"

"No, not a spear. Some kind of super energy electric thing."

"An electric spear," Caboose muttered. 

"It's not a _spear_ , dumbass!"

"Like that doesn't sound made up," Sarge muttered.

"All the aliens are into them and now so are the humans. So me and Junior have to go around sometimes and help...negotiate stuff."

"Negotiate?" 

"Yeah. We're like ambassadors here or something. Humans and aliens feel more comfortable around us since we're kind of 'inbetween'."

"Inbetween, huh?" Sarge said, gruffly. "That's one way teh look at it."

* * *

Grif dropped the annoyed tension in his shoulders the second he was out of sight, letting them fall into his natural slump. He was still pissed at Tucker, but it was too fucking hot to stomp around when he didn't have anything to prove. He'd take it back up when he went back.

As he had suspected, the temple went back way further than it looked from the entrance. The walls seemed to give way to endless passages, narrow and hidden around columns, almost invisible until they were looked at head on. Most were too small for Grif to squeeze his chunky armour through but he soon found some that were more accommodating, and he ducked inside to explore more of the place.

There was very little in the way of furniture. The ground rose up in slopes or high, unsteady looking staircases, but the lower floor was nothing more than sand.

As Grif walked into a room of particular vast size, his eyes again darted up to the ceiling, which was half worn away, leaving the inside vulnerable to the glare of the sun above. It appeared there had once been stone beams that ran along the whole length of the roof, but had since fragmented and fallen to the ground. What was left continued across and down each corner of the room, falling into pillars and archways.

The carvings on the walls were undoubtedly fascinating, but since Grif knew how little he would understand any of them, he paid them no attention. Although again, it didn't escape his notice how much Simmons would probably fawn over them all had he been present.

Dragging his eyes away from the non-existent ceiling, Grif yawned and stretched his arms out best he could within his armour's limitations. Which was hardly at all, much to his irritation. He'd take the damn thing off if there wasn't a crusade of armed assholes waiting outside the place to blow their fucking heads off.

As he scanned the room, something caught his eye. A piece of machinery sticking out of the sand on the far wall.

Rubbing his exposed flesh with a pained groan, Grif adjusted his armour so it sat a little less uncomfortably and clambered over towards the object, the uneven floor making him stumble. The room seemed even larger as he ventured further inside, its oval structure giving the appearance of a throne room, and although the ceiling gave little protection from the sun, Grif figured it could have easily been pretty shady in the days when it wasn't run into the ground, and he wondered vaguely if it would have been even more incredible with its stone still intact.

The thing in the sand looked smaller from a distance, as when Grif was close enough to look directly down on it, he saw that it was only the head of something a lot larger, its body extending deeper into the ground.

Crouching down, he reached out for it, but jumped back with a yelp as an electric pulse snapped up at his hand, causing him to fall backwards onto his backside. The thing thrummed angrily, electricity crackling where it had been still before.

Grif kicked it hesitantly with his boot, retracting it immediately as the object hissed and growled.

 _Fucking freaky alien tech_ , he thought irritably. How could it be that an inanimate object disliked him? All he wanted to do was fuck around with it.

It let out another growl.

"Jesus, fine I won't touch you then," Grif said, pushing himself up until he was back to standing over it. The thing quietened to a low hum, as if it was charging.

Figuring it would probably do something if he waited long enough, Grif stared down at it, his gun swinging from his fingers.

Eventually, the noise got louder again, and small lights suddenly started flicking on all over the body. They ran down along the weapon's length, disappearing down into unexposed areas.

Taking a chance, Grif positioned himself over it and brushed some of the sand off with his foot, revealing a long, very heavy-looking handle that stretched across a span of a meter.

"Holy shit," he breathed, grinning.

* * *

"Donut! Donut, wake up! Don- AH!"

Simmons scrambled to shield his face the moment he opened the door to his team mate’s bunk, face burning and brain already working desperately to try to erase the image now burned permanently into his optical lobe.

"Oh! Hi, Simmons!"

"Put some clothes on!" Simmons shrieked.

"Well you don't need to be so rude," Donut said indignantly, pulling on the jogging bottoms that were lain on the floor beside him. "I only said hello."

Waiting until he was certain the other man had _all_ of his discarded clothing back on him, Simmons peeked hesitantly through his fingers. "What the hell were you doing?"

"Well, you see I'd been going about this routine all wrong. Turns out yoga is designed to be a _nocturnal_ exercise-"

"Why were you naked?!"

"Oh, that's just a personal preference," Donut replied happily, his hands rested comfortably on his hips. "Easier to stretch if you don't have the limitations of material."

Simmons closed his eyes, fingers digging into his forehead as he asked himself what he had done to have such fucking weird friends, whilst Donut started walking on the spot, socked feet making soft thuds on the floor.

"So," he said, constant smile still in place. "How are you?"

"Sarge and Grif are in trouble." Simmons removed his hands and met the now wide eyes of his Red team mate. "We gotta go help them."

"In trouble?" Donut's gentle padding ceased as he clutched his hands together. "Oh no!"

"Yeah, exactly,"Simmons said. "We need the Warthog. Do you know if Lopez managed to get it fixed?"

"I should think so. I don't think it was all that broken anyway. Just needed some decent lubrication-"

"Donut! Stop that." Simmons made his way back out the door, still facing the other man. "Get your armour back on and go check. I'll meet you outside in two minutes."

"And where are you going?" Donut asked huffily, hands on his hips.

"I need to check something!" Simmons was already jogging back to his bunk. "Two minutes!"

* * *

Man this thing was fucking heavy.

After countless electric shocks and angry curses as the hammer refused to let Grif anywhere near it, it finally lay in the soldier's hands, span now clearly exceeding two metres, and handle burning through the gloves that held it.

"Hey!" Grif said, shifting his grip periodically as the thing refused to let him hold it in one place for more than a few seconds. "Cut that out! I found you, so now I get to fucking annihilate people with you!"

The hammer growled furiously.

"Fucking Christ, it's like you can actually understand me," Grif muttered, settling for throwing the weapon over his shoulder and heading back out of the room. He wanted to go exploring more of the temple, but his anger with Tucker had been well and truly replaced by the urge to rub his findings in the Blue's face, so he set about retracing his steps back to him and the others.

Along the way, the hammer continued to snarl and hum and spit at him, as if irritated at its situation. Grif would have just ignored it if it wasn't going on directly into his ear, and with every step it seemed to become more and more disgruntled.

 _God damn_ , he thought. _Would have thought it'd be happy to have some company after sitting in the fucking sand for a decade_.

The humming peaked slightly and then died down.

"Can you fucking read my thoughts now too?" Grif said, only slightly rhetorically. "Hum twice if you can read my thoughts."

It didn't hum twice.

"Dammit. That would have been cool as dicks-"

"Grif?"

The soldier's head shot up from where it was frowning at the ground as he walked, and he was met with the sight of a very confused looking Tucker, a still helmeted Caboose and Sarge, who although was helmet-less, had as blank an expression as ever.

Grif stopped short, very aware of the fact that they had just seen him conversing with no one and offered them a sheepish grin.

"Oh. Hi."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed, next chapter will be up soon and will be more focused on the goings on back at Valhalla.


End file.
